


Loose Ends

by orphan_account



Series: Civil Law [6]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9410000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Compromises are made. Picks up where "Long Nights" left off.





	1. Chapter 1

Natasha’s birthday party was the absolute last place to be kissing Matthew Murdock, but Bucky was nothing if not reckless.

“God, Matt...” he sighed.

Matt kissing him so tentatively was driving Bucky crazy. _If we're actually gonna do this_ , he thought wildly to himself, _then let's just fucking do it_.

He tightened his hands on Matt’s waist and pulled him in close, opening his mouth under Matt’s. The little gasp this elicited sent a jolt down Bucky’s spine.

Matt suddenly straightened up and pulled away and that really wasn't fair, and then Bucky heard them, too: people coming down the hall.

Matt was moving away from him, his hands falling off of him. Bucky took one of those hands in his own and turned his mouth into it - starving for him, still. And then he was watching Matt walk away, and his phone lit up with a message from T’Challa.

“What's wrong?” T’Challa asked as soon as Bucky slid into the backseat beside him.

“Nothing. Tired.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

T’Challa gave him a look that clearly communicated he didn't buy it, but he said nothing else. Grateful for it, Bucky reached over and put his hand on T’Challa’s thigh.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he said. “My friends really wanted to meet you.”

“I hope I didn't disappoint them.”

“Just Nat, maybe. But she's got high standards,” Bucky joked half-heartedly.

T’Challa gave him a pity smile, but it quickly slipped off his face. “You’re shaking,” he said. “What happened?”

Bucky fumbled for a response. “I-I'd rather not talk about it.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up at last in front of Bucky’s apartment, T’Challa quietly offered, “Do you still want me to come up?”

Bucky felt like an ass. “I don't want to put you out.” He had offered, after all, to let T’Challa stay with him while he was in town.

“That's not what I asked.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I need to be alone for a while.”

Disappointment wasn't such a comely look on the prince. Bucky kissed him - an apology. “When are you leaving?” he asked.

“I have to be in Glasgow by noon, their time, day after tomorrow.”

“Can we get breakfast?”

“Of course.”

 Bucky kissed him again before getting out of the car. 

At last alone in his dark apartment, he tried, and failed, not to think about Matt.

Matt, who was marrying Steve tomorrow.

 _You're not the marrying type, Rogers_ , Bucky had teased when Steve told him about the proposal.

 _I never thought so_ , Steve had admitted. _But he makes me wanna try_.

“Fuck everything,” Bucky mumbled, annoyed with himself for having sent T’Challa away. He could've been getting laid right now, instead of being left alone with his own tumultuous thinking.

T’Challa wasn't just after a piece of ass, though. He would've tried to get Bucky to talk to him. Unburden himself. The last thing Bucky wanted was to dump this shit on another person - T’Challa least of all.

He went into his bedroom, into the closet. Picking out an outfit for Steve's wedding - and Matt’s - wasn't something he thought he'd be doing so soon.

***

“Is that... something you would be interested in? Bucky?”

“Hm?”

Bucky had been staring out the window at the sprawl of the city underneath them. They were having breakfast in T’Challa’s suite, at the hotel he'd stayed at after Bucky had sent him away.

“The Met Gala,” T’Challa said again, actually sounding nervous. “Would you like to go? With me?”

“The Met Gala.”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean... as your date?”

“I do, yes.”

“Oh. Wow.” Bucky took a sip of his coffee. “Tired of topping all those Most Eligible Bachelor lists?” he teased, stalling.

T’Challa smirked at him.

“Are you sure you want the attention? I'm not exactly low profile. And with my past, you know... Could be bad press for you.”

“You are important to me. It would make me happy to have you there.” T’Challa slipped his hand into Bucky’s. “But I do understand if _you_ don't want the attention.”

They’d been seeing each other for a while now, but appearing together in public was a completely different animal. It meant lots of questions, and photographs. Being followed. Fielding reporters. It meant commitment.

All the hype of the trial had been hell for Bucky. He valued what he had with T’Challa, private and personal as it was, and wasn’t quite ready to blast open the doors just yet.

But T’Challa seemed to have made up his mind. And if this was what he wanted, Bucky could make the compromise. (Wasn’t that what healthy relationships were all about? Compromise? Bucky was sure he’d read that somewhere.)

Besides, the sentiment warmed him: T’Challa wanted the world to know that they were together. Bucky couldn’t figure out _why_ , or what it was about him that T’Challa liked so much.

“You’ll have to tell me who’s who,” Bucky said. “I don’t wanna get people’s names all jumbled up and embarrass you.”

“You could never embarrass me.”

“Don’t jump so quick to conclusions. You should ask Steve about some of the stuff we got into before the war.”

"I'd rather hear it from you." T'Challa smiled when he said it, but Bucky had very quickly figured out how to read the prince. Which smiles were the real ones.

Bucky stood up and took T'Challa by both hands, pulling him onto his feet. "When am I gonna see you again?" he asked. "Before the gala, maybe?"

T'Challa sighed. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I'll do my best to-"

"Hey, no, I knew going into this that your duties come first. I wouldn't expect anything else." He drew T'Challa closer until they stood chest to chest, and slipped an arm around the prince's trim waist. "But since I don't have to be at the courthouse for another hour or so..."

"You must be very happy for your friend."

The words caught Bucky off guard. He tried not to show it. "I am. For both of them. Matt, too, I mean. They're perfect for each other. I am very happy."

"I won't push you, Bucky. Whatever’s going on, you don't have to tell me about it until you're ready."

"I... Thank you."

T'Challa put his fingers under Bucky’s chin and kissed him lightly.

Bucky wanted to tell him everything right then and there. Instead, he put his head on T’Challa’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around him.


	2. Chapter 2

**THREE MONTHS PRIOR, LONDON**

“It's a lovely night,” Bucky said, walking out into the warm air as T’Challa held the door open. The owner of the restaurant wished them a goodnight, and went at last about the business of closing down; they'd stayed open late just for Bucky and T’Challa.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” T’Challa asked.

Bucky smiled at him. He hadn't smiled so much in a long time.

They were, of course, surrounded on all sides by T’Challa’s security detail. But the guards kept their distance, and after a while, even the black SUV trailing closely behind them went out of Bucky’s mind. He could almost pretend they were alone.

They came to a stop in front of a small fountain, and Bucky raked his eyes over T’Challa - T’Challa, the next king of Wakanda, dressed in a tight black shirt that left nothing to the imagination, with a watch on his wrist that Bucky would bet cost more than his metal arm. Effortlessly elegant, and charismatic. And damn sexy. And more than interested in Bucky, of all people.

When he took Bucky by the hand and pulled him close, Bucky went to him eagerly.

“Please tell me you got a room,” Bucky said.

T’Challa smiled against Bucky’s mouth. “I thought you didn't put out on the second date.”

“What can I say. I'm capricious.” He smoothed his hands down T’Challa’s sides, feeling him up shamelessly. “And right now I really want you to fuck me.”

“Say please.”

“You're an asshole.”

T’Challa reached into his back pocket and pulled out a key card, and roughly ten minutes of backseat making out later, T’Challa’s car was dropping them off in front of the Ritz.

When they were ushered into the grand lobby, an impeccably dressed young attendant was waiting for them. “Right this way, Your Highness,” she said, leading them under a massive chandelier and into what had to be the fanciest elevator in all of London, if not Europe. The walls were all covered in intricate, curling golden filigree.

Bucky whistled, and the young woman turned and smiled at him. “We’ve recently renovated all of our public spaces,” she said proudly. “Everything you see is brand new and up to date.”

T’Challa didn't seem so impressed. Then again, Bucky figured, he was probably used to such finery. Bored with it, even. The realization came over Bucky, then: this was all for his sake. The fancy dinner. This insane hotel. He looked over at T’Challa, leaning casually against that ridiculous golden wall, staring at Bucky with open desire. Bucky stared back.

They got off at the top floor, and the attendant walked them down to the tall double doors at the end of the hallway. She touched a key card to the sensor and opened both doors at once to reveal a swanky penthouse suite.

“If there's anything else we can do for you, Your Highness, please let us know.”

She left, closing the doors behind her, and Bucky and T’Challa were alone.

“You didn't have to do all this,” Bucky said. “I would've slept with you anyway.”

T’Challa’s laugh was loud and infectious. “I wanted to."

Bucky closed the distance between them and clasped his hands together behind T’Challa’s neck.

“You are... unreal,” he said dumbly, unsure of how to thank him, what to say.

T’Challa took him by the waist and finally kissed him again, and Bucky opened his mouth under T’Challa’s at once. Words were tricky; Bucky was _much_ better at this.

T’Challa lifted Bucky - _lifted_ him, as though he weighed nothing - and carried him over to the bed. Bucky grabbed him by the belt and tugged T’Challa down on top of him, kissing the prince like his life depended on it.

“How do you want this?” T’Challa asked him, unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt and kissing his neck, working his way down.

Bucky sighed, turning his head over his shoulder and whimpering - actually _whimpering_ \- when T’Challa licked over his nipple. And that was when Bucky saw them: two massive men, lurking in the shadows of the dark bathroom. Armed and waiting.

He closed his eyes and rolled his head back onto the pillow as though he hadn't noticed them at all, arching up into T’Challa and positioning his hands on the prince’s shoulders.

“T’Challa,” he whispered, putting his metal arm between T’Challa and the bathroom doorway. “Get down.”

He rolled them both off the bed as gunfire erupted, pulling up the mattress as they rolled and using it as a shield. Across the room, the double doors were kicked open and another duo walked in, guns poised to fire.

“ _Get the prince_ ,” one of them ordered in German. “ _Dead or alive._ ”

Bucky got up and went for them, left arm in place to block their gunfire. He had them both disarmed and on the floor in seconds, and then quickly turned his attention back to the two in the bathroom. That's when he saw T’Challa stepping out from behind the bed.

“Stay down!” he hollered. “T’Challa!”

Bucky lost sight of the prince as he turned to block another slew of bullets. Someone else was coming through the door. He grabbed the gunman by the face and smashed his head through a wall. When he looked back again, T’Challa was gone.

And then one of the intruders from the bathroom came stumbling into view, his face bloodied. He threw a punch and T’Challa smoothly redirected him, disarming him as he went and knocking him out with one hit. Bucky didn't have time to be surprised; three men came crashing through the window, swinging in the air.

T’Challa grabbed two of them by their bulletproof vests. Bucky yanked the third off his line and steered him across the room, slamming him into the flat screen.

“ _What are you doing here_?” Bucky demanded in German.

The man spat in his face, and Bucky shattered his collarbone.

“ _Try again_ ,” he said darkly.

“ _We were sent for the Wakandan_ ,” the man cried, shaking all over from the pain.

“ _On whose orders?_ ”

He'd bitten down on the cyanide capsule before Bucky could pry it out of his mouth. Bucky huffed and let him fall to the floor, and then took a step back and looked around the ruined room. T’Challa stood with his hands on his hips. He wasn't sweating, or breathing hard. The only indication that he'd been in a fight was a single bullet graze across the top of one pectoral.

“This place is gonna get one of hell of a Yelp review,” Bucky said.

“Let's get you back to New York. We'll take my jet.”

An hour later, Bucky was emerging from a luxury bathroom in the thickest, fluffiest black robe that had ever existed. Fuck the hotel. T’Challa’s private plane had every bit of that selfsame finery, with the added bonus of being up in the air and away from any armed assassins - at least for the time being. Bucky wasn't letting his guard down just yet.

T’Challa was speaking with several of his security detail, looking pinched and unhappy. Noticing Bucky, he dismissed them immediately.

“Firstly,” Bucky said, taking a first aid kit off the wall. “Who puts a _shower_ on a plane? And secondly, why is the shower so _nice?_ ”

“Are you injured?” T’Challa asked.

“It takes a lot more to put me down than a couple of hired thugs.” He pointed to one of the built in leather couches. “Sit.”

“I should have warned you before,” T’Challa said sheepishly, doing as Bucky commanded. “A lot of people try to kill me.”

“That's something we have in common. Take off your shirt.”

T’Challa waved his hand dismissively. “It's nothing to worry about.”

“Not yet, it isn't. The last thing you need is an infection.”

T’Challa rolled his eyes and complied, pulling his shirt off over his head to reveal the wet, angry scrape beneath his collarbone where a single bullet had grazed him. Other than that, he was completely unharmed.

Bucky laid out everything he needed on a low table. He sat down sideways on T’Challa’s lap, prepping a bit of cloth with disinfectant. “Three-star dinner, five-star hotel, assassination attempt... How can our third date even possibly top the second? You gonna take me into the mouth of a volcano?”

“That's the fourth date,” T’Challa joked half-heartedly. He didn't even wince when Bucky wiped over the wound.

“Anything you wanna tell me about yourself?” Bucky said casually. “Maybe how you took out four armed assailants on your own and walked away with a graze?”

“There is a mantle passed from warrior to warrior. The Black Panther has been Wakanda’s protector for centuries. When I die, another will come forward and take my place.”

“Damn. Well. _Clearly_ , you can take care of yourself. Why the beefy security?”

T’Challa looked away. “My father... insisted.”

“Oh.” Bucky tried not to be hurt. It made sense, after all, given his track record. “It's because of me, right? I get it. Russian assassin and all that.”

T’Challa took Bucky’s chin in his hand. “I would never have asked for it, Bucky. I do not fear you, or distrust you.”

Bucky wanted to thank him, but he didn't think T’Challa would understand. Instead he leaned forward and kissed him, brief and chaste.

“Now you know everything about me,” T’Challa said softly.

“Not everything.”

“The important parts,” T’Challa said, settling into the couch, spreading his arms across the back of it. “All else is inconsequential.”

“Not to me.”

A look passed between them. Bucky’s hands went still. And then his cell phone started vibrating.

“That'll be my people,” Bucky said. “Making sure I'm still alive.” He let the phone go on buzzing as he finally laid a clean, white bandage over the graze and affixed it there with medical tape. “All done, Your Highness. You'll get my bill in the mail.”

T’Challa smiled. “Thank you,” he murmured, leaning forward again to take Bucky firmly by the hips, kissing the underside of his jaw.

Helpless - always, with T’Challa, completely at the prince’s mercy - Bucky sighed and rolled his head back, giving T’Challa greater access to all the length of his neck.

“You are uninjured?” T’Challa asked him again, getting his hands inside that bathrobe and running them over Bucky’s chest.

“Yes,” Bucky breathed.

The angle could be better. Bucky stood up and readjusted, straddling T’Challa’s lap rather than sitting sideways across it. And this was _great_. _Much_ better.

He took T’Challa’s face in his hands and kissed him hard. The tie on his robe was yanked open and T’Challa groped his thighs, his ass, pulling Bucky flush up against him.

“Fuck,” Bucky gasped when T’Challa reached down between them and took Bucky in hand, fisting his cock slow and firm, his other arm wrapped tight around Bucky’s waist.

“I've never met anyone like you before,” Bucky said breathlessly, unable to stop himself. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Be careful, Sergeant,” T’Challa murmured against his neck. “Keep talking like that, I might fall in love with you.”

And that should have been terrifying; he'd known T’Challa less than a month, they'd been on a grand total of two dates - who said anything about love?

But that was what Bucky liked most about him. T’Challa was direct. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn't partial to bullshit. And being at the center of that intense, undivided attention was exhilarating.

“T’Challa... I... I'm...”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Bucky said automatically.

T’Challa wrapped his hand around Bucky’s throat and squeezed.

Instinct kicked in first, making him tense, and dissolved almost instantly into pure, hot pleasure. He gasped into T’Challa’s mouth, eyes rolling back in his head, and dug his nails into T’Challa’s broad shoulders.

The last person he'd done this with was Steve. Decades ago. Bucky had forgotten how much he liked it.

T’Challa let up, just enough, only enough for Bucky to whine at the lost of it. He kissed Bucky’s panting mouth, licked lushly under Bucky’s upper lip, and tightened his hand again.

Bucky looked him in the eye when he came, mouth open around a silent shout. T’Challa kept stroking him through it, until Bucky whined and took T’Challa’s wrist in his hand.

T'Challa wiped off his hand on his discarded shirt before wrapping his arms around Bucky. “Have you ever had sex on a jet?” he asked, kissing Bucky’s mouth over and over, like he couldn't get enough of him.

“I wish I could say no. This would've been a great first time."

"It can be."

"Did you just... imply... that you could bang the memory out of me?"

T'Challa shrugged.

"Everything off," Bucky ordered, undoing T'Challa's belt and yanking it off of him. "Right now."


	3. Chapter 3

**PRESENT DAY**

“I’m sorry, Steve, it’s just-”

“No, yeah-”

“It’s been a really long day.”

“Yeah.” Steve rolled off to the side, off of Matt. They laid side by side in the dark. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no, don’t,” Matt said softly. He rolled onto his side, laying his hand over his husband’s chest, and kissed his bare shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been so fucking tired lately.”

“You work too much.”

“Oh, and you don’t?”

“Never said that.”

Matt smiled against Steve’s skin. He obligingly lifted his head when Steve swung his arm around, laying his cheek on Steve’s chest and burrowing sleepily into him.

“You're burnin’ yourself out,” Steve said, rubbing his hand up and down Matt’s arm. Ever since they’d moved to Brooklyn, Steve’s accent had started to come back. Matt found it impossibly charming, and unexpectedly very sexy.

“You’d rather be burning me out instead, huh?” he said around a yawn, firmly smoothing his hand over Steve’s pectoral.

Steve huffed. “It’s been a while.”

And it had been. Not horribly long, like the entire year they’d spent not talking to one another. _While Bucky was getting it in_ , Matt added inwardly, wincing.

He still hadn’t told Steve about Natasha’s birthday party - when he had stood over Bucky and kissed him like nothing had changed. He didn’t think he’d ever tell him; some secrets needed to stay secrets, and bringing it up to Steve now, after all of the progress they’d made with couples therapy, wasn’t anything that Matt was interested in doing.

He’d been thinking about Bucky a lot lately. Not the way he used to, when he’d wake up from dreams about rough stubble and one cool, metal hand. (There was no way around it: sex with Bucky was unbelievable. Their bodies just worked well together.) It was Foggy’s behavior, shittily enough, that was making Matt think about things he'd rather leave untouched for the rest of eternity.

Matt had been thinking they were cool again, that Foggy had gotten over - or at least, had forgiven him for - Matt's year-long backstab-y fuck spree (Foggy’s words, one drunken night). But about halfway into their latest case, when it came to light that their client had a sexual history with the defendant, Foggy had made some comment about Matt being the king of bad choices.

Matt had winced at the time, but said nothing. And then after that, Foggy's behavior had become more and more aloof, and Matt was back to feeling guilty as hell about everything.

So he was staying way too late and coming in way too early, and generally biting off way more than he could reasonably chew. Which meant that his relationship with his very loving, very physical husband was starting to sag in the middle. The last time they'd done anything more involved than lazy kissing and very languid dry humping was weeks ago, when Steve had come to have lunch with him at work and ended up bent over Matt's desk, khaki dad pants in a heap around his ankles.

Now, Matt closed his eyes and brushed his thumb across Steve's collarbone. Foggy was clearly still pissed at him. He was neglecting his brand new marriage, and not being entirely truthful with Steve. Matt was trying not to sink back into that place of, _I can't do anything right_ , and failing miserably. “I’m sorry," he whispered.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about,” Steve said, turning his face to press a kiss Matt’s forehead. “I just don’t want you to overwork yourself. Is everything good at the office?”

“Not really.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe in the morning,” he mumbled; and then, sheer exhaustion making the words fall out of him: “It’s just been so weird with Foggy lately. After everything with... with Bucky... I thought we were cool, but lately it’s like I have to prove my worth to him all over again.” He added quietly, “To you.”

Steve was silent for a moment. “Why's that?”

“We haven't been having sex, and I just don't want you to think... it's not because... I'm worried you might be thinking it's maybe because-”

“Because of Bucky?” Steve sighed. “I get why you don't want to. I know you've been putting in a lotta hours lately. Everything with Bucky is behind us, and it would be unfair of me to drag it all back up because I'm trying to get laid.”

Matt pulled himself up and halfway onto his husband, slotting one leg between Steve's and leaning down to kiss him. “You know I’m crazy about you, right?” he murmured, lips catching Steve's in the dark.

“I love you.”

He kissed Steve slowly and lovingly, responding in kind when Steve's mouth opened up under his. Matt shifted a bit, thigh pressing into Steve's erection, and Steve canted his hips up into him, breath catching in the back of his throat.

“Not trying to be a tease,” Matt said apologetically. “I can jerk you off? Or you could use my-”

“Go to sleep, Matt.”

“Just gimme four hours. Five tops. Five hours of sleep, and I promise I’ll blow you in the morning.”

“Romantic.”

"Oh, I can show you romantic."

He pushed his face into Steve's neck and promptly fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Foggy didn't give two shits about fashion, but when he was flipping through channels and came across Bucky fucking Barnes, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on the red fucking carpet at the fucking Met Gala, Foggy had cranked up the volume, grabbed a bottle of gin and a pint of mint chocolate chip, and settled in on his couch.

Bucky was stunning. Foggy had always been a fan of Bucky’s long hair, but could freely admit that the David Beckham look was a good one on him - especially slicked back, as he’d styled it for the event.

“That is _definitely_ Bucky Barnes!” the hostess was saying, over-exaggerating her surprise. When Prince T’Challa walked up beside him, saying something into Bucky’s ear and taking that metal hand into his, she _really_ lost her shit, eyes and mouth going wide, whole body swivelling back and forth between the camera and the sight of Bucky and the prince holding hands, bathed now in the light of a thousand flashing bulbs as they made their way down the carpet.

“Well, good for y’all,” Foggy said aloud to no one, ice cream dribbling out of his mouth.

She was saying something now about how no one could have seen this coming, giving a hurried little recap of Bucky’s history, rattling off the _apparently very true, oh my God!_ speculation about Prince T’Challa’s sexual orientation.

Bucky was making _that_ face, the one that Foggy hated to see. He’d kissed that face off of Bucky too many times in the past, especially towards the end of everything, right before Bucky took off to go fight the good fight with Matt and Steve overseas.

And then he’d made out with Matt on a mission, and called it quits with Natasha and Foggy via Skype.

He took a swig of the gin, and thought wistfully of the days when Bucky Barnes was just the guy Matt liked to complain about - Steve’s deranged undead ex-lover from his Howling Commando days; a very removed, abstract Bucky Barnes whom Foggy didn’t particularly care about.

He could even go for the trial days, back when the name finally had a rather handsome face to go with it, and Bucky was nothing more to Foggy than a client - one with very special circumstances, whom Foggy had a tiny bit of a private crush on, but a client nonetheless.

He turned his attention back to the television. Someone was shoving a microphone into Bucky’s face, and Prince T’Challa smoothly stepped forwarded and intercepted the question. They tried again to get an answer out of Bucky, and again the prince redirected them without seeming rude or annoyed in any way. Foggy was impressed. Bucky looked grateful.

He’d seen them together at Natasha’s birthday party, hands all over each other like it was prom night. Foggy had never seen Bucky so openly joyous and affectionate; clearly Prince T’Challa was good for him. They seemed happy together.

So Bucky had the crown prince of Wakanda. Matt was married to Steve. Karen and _Claire_ had a thing going on, weirdly enough. Natasha was back to being contentedly single; “I’ve learned my lesson,” she’d said to Foggy, “And I’m happier alone.” Foggy wished he felt the same. Mostly he just missed being held at night by someone who cared about him.

Bucky and the prince had moved up the steps of the Met and finally disappeared into the museum, and the camera turned its attention to Rihanna even while the hostess was still commenting on Prince T’Challa and his unexpected date.

Foggy really was happy for Bucky; he just sucked at being single. To be fair, he hadn't had a lot of practice in it; Foggy had consistently been in some semblance of a relationship all throughout high school and college (although, in retrospect, he was hesitant to count in his law school attachments).

This was the first time for him, too, that a break up hadn't been mutual. As far as Foggy had known, things were going fine until they suddenly weren't; Bucky was there until he wasn't. It seemed like Natasha had managed to move on very quickly, but Foggy was having a hard time coping, and lately he'd been feeling a lot more glum about the whole thing - maybe because all of his close friends were pairing off and settling down, and Foggy was still jerking off to the memory of Natasha’s voice in his ear, her nails raking slowly across his chest, while Bucky’s head was between his legs.

He thought about shooting Bucky a text, something cute and playful like, _Enjoying the ball, Cinderella?_ But they hadn't talked in a long time (he didn't count the very brief, very awkward "Hi” / “Hey” exchange at Natasha’s party), and Foggy still wasn't sure what he thought about the whole business with him and Matt.

Selfish? Definitely.

Unethical? Very.

Unforgivable?

Steve had been able to move past it, and he’d been way more of a victim in that shit show than Foggy had; the way he saw it, _best friend slash ex-lover sleeping with estranged boyfriend_ definitely trumped _best friend screwing a guy you used to screw and were in a polyamorous type thing with that was never strictly defined as a relationship but felt a lot like a very serious and committed one._

His cell phone began to vibrate. Foggy couldn't say why, but he thought for one wild, heartstopping moment that it might be Bucky.

And then the clouds cleared and reality showed through. It was probably their new client, calling Foggy in tears again. He had already gone through the motions of sighing and answering the call when he realized it had been Matt’s name on the screen.

“What's up?” he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around perplexed.

“Hey, you busy?”

“I'm watching the Met Gala red carpet thing. Bucky and Prince T’Challa showed up as a couple.”

“Whoa. Guess they're getting pretty serious.”

“Guess so.”

Matt was quiet for a while. Foggy prompted with, “Did you need something?”

“Well, um, as you know,” Matt began awkwardly. “I tend to hold things in, and not really let out what I'm feeling until the shit hits the fan.”

“There's a poop joke in there somewhere.”

“Oh, you're right. Now that's all I'm gonna think about. Can I rephrase?”

“You tend to get backed up?”

“Good God. The point is, I wanna talk about... about Bucky, because I feel like there's still some stuff we didn't resolve.”

Great timing, universe.

“What makes you say that?” Foggy deflected. He put the phone on speaker and took his ice cream back into the kitchen.

“You've been a little cold to me lately. Well, not cold, maybe. But aloof... And now that we're actually talking about it, I'm starting to think I'm making up the whole thing in my head and projecting my shit onto you.”

Foggy sighed, rinsing off his spoon in the sink and going back to the living room for that bottle of gin. It'd be easy to let Matt just run with that: that he's projecting his guilt and neuroses onto Foggy.

“I’ve been feeling a little... sad, I guess,” Foggy said reluctantly. “Not entirely because of you. Partly. Mostly just everything catching up to me: Bucky breaking things off; and then you and Bucky; and it seems right now like everybody's got their own good thing going with somebody, and I was really into being with the two of them and I still don't understand why he wasn't.” He braced his hands against the counter and took a deep breath. “But, in response to what you said about unresolved issues, I'm not... holding that whole thing against you. It hurt, yeah, but you're still my best friend. I think I'm just trying to come to terms with everything. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Matt made a thoughtful little sound. “We should talk about our feelings more.”

“You go right ahead. I think I'm gonna stick with bottling up my emotions and letting them manifest however they choose to.”

“Why are we so fucked up, Foggy?”

“Dude, I don't know.”

“Steve put me up to calling you. Otherwise I probably would've kept on tip-toeing around the office.”

“I figured. Please don't tip-toe. Oh, and if this is why you've been taking on so much lately, then please stop. You look like death.”

“I'll take that under advisement.”

“Get off the phone now. Go be with your husband. Or sleep.”

“You gonna keep watching the Met thing?”

“Oh, it's gonna be everywhere tomorrow. Tell Steve to brace himself.”

They hung up, and Foggy scrolled through his contacts, shooting off a quick text:

_Hope you're having fun. If they ask u again who ur wearing, u should say the blood of ur enemies._


End file.
